


96-Hour Leave

by Alethia



Category: Generation Kill
Genre: Brad POV, Established Relationship, M/M, Nate's kind of a dick, Originally Posted on LiveJournal, Post-Canon, Vacation, in the best way
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-12-20
Updated: 2012-12-20
Packaged: 2018-02-20 22:44:59
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,451
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2445905
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Alethia/pseuds/Alethia
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Days. Jacking off here, alone, for <i>days</i>. After <i>months</i>." Brad was not whining; he was impressing upon Nate the seriousness of the transgression.</p>
            </blockquote>





	96-Hour Leave

**Author's Note:**

> This story is based on the fictionalized characters in the HBO miniseries, _Generation Kill_ , as written by Ed Burns and David Simon and as portrayed by Alexander Skarsgard, Stark Sands, and others. It is a work of fiction, ergo it never happened.
> 
> Set somewhere after the repeal of DADT. Many thanks to [](http://ricochet.dreamwidth.org/profile)[**ricochet**](http://ricochet.dreamwidth.org/) , [](http://pommederis.livejournal.com/profile)[**pommederis**](http://pommederis.livejournal.com/), and [](http://templemarker.livejournal.com/profile)[**templemarker**](http://templemarker.livejournal.com/) for their thoughtful betas. All other mistakes are my own. Originally posted on LJ [here](http://alethialia.livejournal.com/603478.html#cutid1).

"Finally!" Brad called, tipping his head back on the couch to eye Nate in the doorway of their prissy hotel suite. Only Nate would've booked them a room this ridiculous. 

Couldn't fault the view, though. 

"Hello to you, too," Nate said dryly. He let the door shut behind him and dropped his bag with a sigh familiar to anyone who'd endured the fuckery of civilian air transport. 

Not that he'd get any sympathy from Brad. "First you make me travel to this godforsaken wasteland—"

"Or a tropical paradise."

"Then you're _late_ —"

"I'll have to work on that 'controlling the weather' thing," Nate murmured, moving toward him, eyes fixed on Brad, darting from his half-buttoned shirt to his face and back again. It was a look Brad could only describe as _hungry_. 

But Brad had a point to make. 

"Making me jack off all by myself—"

Nate stopped short just shy of the couch. "You better not be doing it with anyone _else_."

"I should cancel my plans with the cabana boy, then?" Brad asked, looking up at Nate, all red-eyed and rumpled and still so fucking gorgeous. 

"I'm not even going to dignify that with a response."

"Days. Jacking off here, alone, for _days_. After _months_." Brad was not whining; he was impressing upon Nate the seriousness of the transgression.

Nate looked down at him, expression hard, but fondness just behind. "Bitch bitch bitch. You must be a Marine grunt."

The quirked smile that followed spread warmth all through Brad and right, why was Nate over there again? Brad abruptly stood and hauled Nate into a kiss, mouths connecting like no time had passed, like there had been no interminable months of wanting exactly this, Nate's tongue battling his own, tasting of mints he must've popped on the way here. How considerate. Brad pressed him against the little side table, fucking his mouth with his tongue, deeper. Nate wrapped his arms around him and gave as good as he got, not letting up an inch. 

Fuck, Brad had _missed_ this. 

After thoroughly reacquainting himself with Nate's brilliant mouth, Brad pulled back, pleased to see Nate panting. His lips were already red, one of Brad's favorite looks on him. 

Nate stared at his mouth and muttered, "If it makes you feel better, I was stuck in airports and hotels imagining what you were doing here without me." 

Brad dipped in and kissed him again, brief. He ran his knuckles across Nate's stubbled jaw. "I didn't realize a pretty thing like you could grow a beard."

Nate's eyes sharpened. "For that, you get to deal with beard burn. After I shower." He promptly shoved Brad away and headed for the bathroom across from the bedroom. "Don't even think about it," he called back, before Brad had even taken a step to follow. 

Brad paused. Nate typically chose cleanliness over most things. They'd basted in their own filth for long enough that personal hygiene took on new importance. Choosing cleanliness over sex, though, that was new.

He could make a sandwich. Nate would need his strength. 

***

As the shower ran tauntingly behind the closed bathroom door, Brad gathered the fixings that he'd stocked in the suite's little kitchen. It had seemed like a good way to pass all the vacation time he wasn't spending fucking Nate because Nate was pinned down by a hurricane. 

Like that was some kind of excuse. 

Nate didn't like mayonnaise. He liked that pretentious Grey Poupon bullshit. Brad preferred the neon yellow stuff, but whatever. He could handle prissy mustard for Nate. He saved the single-serving jars from fancy restaurants he went to with his parents or sister. He had a little collection at home. He'd stacked them into columns and arranged them hexastyle, like the White House's South Portico. Once he started gluing jars together to make the elliptical entablature for a legitimate colonnade, he realized it was starting to get a little sad.

Also, he'd internalized way too much shop talk from his father.

He wondered what the TSA would say if he tried to bring fifty mini jars of Grey Poupon on the plane. Fuckers would probably think he was trying to make mustard gas out of actual mustard. 

The rhythm of the shower water changed. Brad turned his head and glared at the ridiculous bamboo-accented door. "You better not be jerking off in there," he called. 

"You're not getting off that easy, asshole," Nate called back. 

The casual smackdown sent heat stinging through him, as Nate always did, regardless of whether he was being genial or a complete jackass. Hell, Nate being a jackass was even more enticing; so few ever got to see it. It woke the curling, barbed _thing_ in his chest until he felt like he couldn't breathe for the want. 

It dulled with distance, this helpless craving, but never completely. Even on the other side of the world, Brad felt something calling him back, some inexorable pull. 

When they couldn't talk, when Brad was stuck in the mountains of no-really-it's-not-Pakistan-we-swear, wishing he could be anywhere not freezing his balls off—and wasn't that a mindfuck—he found it perversely comforting to be able to log in to Nate's bank account and see that he spent $12.05 on a burger at Chef Geoff's, downstairs from CNAS. At least, Brad assumed it was a burger. It could be something dainty like a tea-smoked chicken salad, but it wasn't like he could ask. Also, that'd probably be more expensive, in addition to testosterone-reducing. 

It wasn't hacking when Nate wrote his password on a piece of paper and left it next to his computer. Brad just remembered numbers. 

He heard the shower finally shut off, followed by the sounds of Nate rustling around. Brad wouldn't object to Nate lubing himself, slick fingers on slick skin, opening himself up while thinking of Brad, wanting. 

Check that: Brad would mind. He wanted to do that his damn self, thank you. He was just about to say as much when Nate walked out, wearing nothing but a towel, stray droplets of water on his chest drying out Brad's mouth. He hadn't shaved. 

Brad swallowed, throat gone tight. "I made you a sandwich." He offered the cheap plastic plate. 

Nate looked at the sandwich. Looked at Brad. "What a good provider you are."

He ignored the sandwich and went for Brad.

***

Nate rubbed his chin along the underside of Brad's cock, stubble making Brad hiss and gasp out, "You little shit."

"I warned you."

Brad gripped the headboard as Nate exhaled around the base of his cock, the disparate sensations—pain to pleasure and back again—fucking with his reactions, only making him harder. 

But then, he always was a bit of a masochist. Kind of in the job description. 

"You gonna get to it or sit there with your dick in your hands?" Brad rasped out. He gripped the headboard, feeling the bite of the wood. Good pain. 

"If that's how it's gonna be, I'm sure you've got a cock ring around here somewhere," Nate mused, sitting up and looking around. His hair was spiky from Brad mussing it with his fingers. His eyes were dead fucking serious.

Oh, right. Marine officers were sadists. 

Brad licked his lips. 

***

Later, he traced along Nate's tricep, simply enjoying the feel of skin. Of Nate _here_ , not thousands of miles away over tinny Internet connections or unreliable phone lines. "You've bulked up."

Nate sniffed and made a noise of agreement into the too-soft pillow. "Gotta keep up with all you active duty assholes. Might forget I was recon, too."

"Oh, yeah? You gonna put those muscles to use?"

Exploding upward, Nate rolled and pinned him expertly to the bed. "You think I won't?" His green eyes bored into Brad, just daring him.

Testing, Brad flexed against him, straining against silken sheets—they might actually be made of bamboo—but not moving at all. 

Nate pressed him down harder into the cloud-like mattress. His teeth gleamed in a feral grin.

***

Brad slid toward the edge of the bed, sore, but still considering a morning run on the beach, maybe a shower with Nate afterward. 

Nate grabbed his arm and made a quelling noise. "No," he said after a moment, voice still muzzy with sleep.

"No?" Brad asked as he raised an eyebrow and looked back at Nate, dappled with morning light even as he lay half-buried under pristine white sheets and the sole surviving pillow. The others had met their end last night, structural integrity somewhat lacking under grasping hands. 

Nate shoved the pillow away, along with the covers, and tugged at Brad's arm. "You can run on the beach at home. You can't fuck me into the mattress at home. Get back here. "

"Sleepy morning sex it is," Brad said, crawling back over and licking a broad stripe up Nate's spine.

"Who's sleepy, motherfucker? Find the goddamn lube."

***

The next time Brad woke and reached for Nate, he was gone. The sheets were cold. He lifted his head and found Nate standing silently in the bedroom door, watching, fully-clothed in board shorts and t-shirt.

He looked damn good in clothes. And out of them. 

Nate looked down at himself, up at Brad. "Really?"

Brad made a dismissive noise, drummed his fingers against his bare stomach. "Don't expect me to stroke your ego."

Nate's eyes followed his fingers. "There are much more important things for you to stroke."

"Speaking of..." Brad said, hand reaching down his own body. 

Nate pulled his eyes away. "Save it," he said, brisk enough to betray his reluctance. "We're going out."

Brad pitched his voice to 'eminently reasonable,' with just a tad of dry mockery; Nate would expect nothing less: "I can go out at home. I can't fuck you at home. Or have you fuck me, I'm not particular," he added, knowing it'd tempt Nate. 

Nate's expression remained unfailingly neutral. Impressive. "No watersports in a tropical paradise at home. Get your shit. And don't get excited. Not _those_ watersports."

***

Nate actually meant watersports, one hundred percent above-board. Surfing, in fact. 

Sand under his toes—legit sand, not the fine, talcum powder version native to the Middle East—the sea calling to them—blue-green and warm and absent of any imminent exercises in drown-proofing—sunshine prickling along his bare shoulders, and a slick Nate. 

Could be worse. 

Especially when it meant he got to see Nate slumped on his knees, forearms resting on the surfboard as they practiced in the sand. His shoulders were already pinking from the sun. He might even freckle.

Brad shifted. 

Nate looked up at him askance. "Really," he said, deeply unimpressed. 

"Conditioned response to you on all fours. Your own fault."

"Won't be _me_ on all fours later," Nate promised, pushing himself to standing to try again. Sand stubbornly clung to his knees. 

Brad swallowed around the thick surge of _want_. "Yes, sir."

***

Nate lay laughing in the shallows as little wavelets lapped at him. He shook his head at his inability to stay on the board, his eyes a luminous green, lit by both humor and sunlight. Brad made his way over, admiring the sight of a wet, laughing Nate, hair spiked everywhere, a stripe of sand along his jaw. 

This. This is what he wanted. What he flew thousands of miles to get. 

Brad dropped down in front of Nate, feeling the scrape of sand on his knees, the coolness of the water tickling his toes, as he grabbed the sides of Nate's face and brought their mouths together. He had to.

The kiss was a little salty, a little gritty, and perfect. 

Nate inhaled against his mouth, pulling back to look at him. One hand shaded his eyes against the insistent sunshine, a question in his expression. 

Brad got up and snagged both their boards, seawater and wax and sand assaulting his hands. He started back toward the rental office.

"Where are you going?" Nate called after him, voice carried along the breeze.

"Taking the boards back," Brad answered. Then he could suck Nate's dick.

***

Nate was...arresting. Even cutting vegetables in the shoebox-sized kitchen, while clad in nothing but black boxer-briefs, glaring at the knife like it was a piss-poor excuse that didn't deserve the name. (It was.)

"I miss my KA-BAR," Nate said without looking up from the wood cutting board. 

"Guess I know what to get you for Christmas." Brad dropped to his knees, wood floor barely even registering—it might be bamboo, too—as he mouthed Nate through his briefs.

A strangled noise escaped Nate before he quickly controlled himself. " _Christ_. Maybe don't do that when I'm holding a knife."

"And restrict our sex life?" Brad tugged the briefs out of the way and took Nate in his mouth. Again. 

The knife clattered to the counter as one hand found the back of Brad's head and squeezed. 

That was more like it. 

***

Nate looked good like this, spread out over the bed, breathing hard and covered in his come. His shoulders had gotten even redder, now contrasting with the white bedding. There might indeed be freckles tomorrow. 

Brad shifted closer, wanting the contact. Which was odd; he didn't think he'd been the clingy type, back when he had occasion to cling. But maybe he was wrong. (He wasn't.)

The room smelled like sunblock and sea breeze and sex and Brad never wanted to leave. He could just lay here with Nate under his fingers, go AWOL and leave the rest behind, happily. 

The twinge in his chest called him on the lie. If only the two wants in his life weren't at war with one another. 

Nate sniffed and made a demanding noise. "Go get a towel to clean this up." He waved a hand at the mess on his own chest. 

Brad did. 

***

Nate woke him with a blowjob, dirty little grin as he took a breath and then went back to town, red mouth stretched perfectly around his cock. 

Brad folded an arm behind his head and propped himself up to watch. Having this all the time wouldn't suck. 

***

After, catching his breath from the truly impressive fucking, Brad considered. That was pretty much the definition of rolling over for someone...and yet something in him thrilled at it. But that begged the question—was it Nate or was it something he'd never much considered?

He pictured doing it for some nameless man, and his mind recoiled. 

Picturing someone he knew provoked an even stronger reaction.

So just Nate then. 

"You do know how to kill your afterglow," Nate muttered, eyes still closed, sheen of sweat making him glow in the light filtering through the closed curtains. "More importantly, mine." There was a question lurking underneath that, though. 

"That was gay," Brad answered as he fingered the exploded stuffing from the last pillow. Probably bamboo, given the theme of this joint.

Nate snorted, definitely mocking. Wasn't even being subtle about it. 

Sometimes he forgot what an asshole Nate was. He was easy to idealize, especially when they interacted from afar. But moments like these, they reminded Brad that the barbed reality was _so much better_. 

"It took you this long to clue in to your gay panic? Must suck to be that slow." Nate's eyes remained closed, but a fond smile curled at the corners of his still-puffy mouth. 

Brad grinned and leaned in. 

***

Bag packed, Nate stood watching the sun set over the water, emblazoned by the dying light. Brad made a point to imprint the image in his mind, take in the details of it to take with him. This was how he'd like to remember Nate, when he was off gritting his teeth through lonely, frigid mountain nights. 

Brad moved in close behind Nate and wrapped an arm around his shoulders. He leaned down and nosed the bruises on Nate's collarbone, only just hidden by his unbuttoned shirt. Bruises _he_ put there, that made Nate hiss and arch, wanting. And on top of his sunburn. 

No freckles, though. Shame. 

Brad could _feel_ Nate smiling. Didn't even need to see it. 

This moment, right here—ocean out the window, Nate at hand, all marked up—this was a perfect moment. He had everything he wanted. 

Brad angled around to meet Nate's eyes, swamped by feelings he'd worked so hard to control. And all for naught. Nate just defeated him, left him bereft, helpless. 

Nate looked back steadily, as frank and uncompromising as ever. "Me, too."

Him, too? Bullshit. How could he possibly know?

Nate grabbed his arm, fingers digging into his skin, rough. "Brad, me, too," he said, fierceness lighting up his eyes, a look that said _don't fucking dismiss this_.

Brad clenched his jaw against the sudden tightness in his throat. Looked away, over at the bamboo side table where he'd first greeted Nate a few short days ago.

Well. Weren't they dramatic. 

Nate's touch softened. He ran a thumb along the inside of Brad's forearm, over the thin skin and blue veins, back and forth, back and forth. 

"RAND is planning to open a branch in San Diego. They asked me to run it."

Brad stilled. When he spoke, he made sure his words came out carefully neutral. He didn't look up. "That's a step down for you, going from CEO of CNAS."

He could feel it as Nate shrugged. "RAND's bigger, more established."

Brad finally looked at Nate to gauge his response. "More inclined to suck the DoD's cock with its reports," he translated. Something Nate would _hate_ , having to kowtow to the brass. Even if it did give him access, propping up the military-industrial complex without any ability for meaningful change in its policies would rankle him. They both knew it would. 

"You mock RAND. 'Think tank for sale,'" Brad parroted, using Nate's own words against him. 

Nate pressed his lips together in that way he had when he got stubborn and stupid about something. "I could change it."

He couldn't. And what a waste of a first-rate mind. 

"I'd get to be in San Diego," Nate said quietly, eyes baring everything, almost pleading. Brad remembered looks like that, back in the shit, so desperate to be understood. To connect.

He never could guard against them. Didn't want to.

Brad sighed. "They're looking for people at Quantico, to train up baby officers." 

Nate visibly startled, like Brad was suddenly speaking in tongues. He let go of Brad's arm. "What?"

"Apparently I have quite the reputation. In typical government fashion, they want to take what they didn't earn and use it to their own ends."

Nate studied him some more, searching his face for...something. Brad had no idea what; Nate was as inscrutable as many accused Brad of being. 

The grin spreading over his face eased the tightness in Brad' s chest. He hadn't even been aware of it, and yet—

Nate schooled his expression, flicked his eyes over Brad. "I'm in the presence of greatness. The next Chesty Puller," he said, straight-faced and solemn as a tomb. 

Brad scoffed and threw a couch pillow at him. 

But in terms of responses to big gay declarations, he'd take shit any day. At least it wasn't mushy relationship talk. Dodged that bullet. 

"If you take a Quantico posting, this will likely come out," Nate said, gesturing between them, now serious for real. 

Mushy relationship talk it was. Fuck. 

Brad shrugged. "They can't kick me out for it anymore. And they want the Iceman? They shall get him," he said with relish. "We are going to offer the United States Marine Corps an object lesson in 'be careful what you wish for.'"

Nate shook his head, slowly, like it was just sinking in. "Brad Colbert weeding out officer candidates." The way Nate looked at him then—so grateful, so hopeful, so happy—it made warmth unfurl in him even as he ached to look away, to get out from under its intensity. 

And then Nate let him off the hook: "Good thing you weren't there in my day. I really _would've_ washed out."

Relief swept through him, like a cool drink after a ten-mile ruck. "Bullshit," he said gamely, back on footing he at least understood. 

"Failure to adapt," Nate said, crisp, nodding once. "No one bothered to explain how a straight belt buckle connected to winning a war."

Brad looked at him steadily, at this man he couldn't quite believe was real, at this man who'd changed his life without knowing it, and he offered the only compliment he could: "You are such an effete intellectual, I despair of my choices in life."

***

Fin. Feedback is adored.


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